


mistletoe (make the yuletide gay)

by Eguinerve



Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Traditions, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/pseuds/Eguinerve
Summary: There are different traditions surrounding mistletoe, some of them are more fun than the others.
Relationships: Arthur/Maleagant (La Légende du Roi Arthur)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	mistletoe (make the yuletide gay)

**Author's Note:**

> this story was meant to be silly and lighthearted, but I managed to sliiiightly complicate it  
> (and there is a chance I'll expand this universe one day)  
> anyway, I hope you enjoy it!  
> and let's hope that the next year will be a good one :)

The Yule log is still smoldering on a hearth in the center of the Great Hall, but the spirit of fire barely clings to the blackened oak. Tomorrow’s night will mark the end of celebrations and the beginning of the new year, and hopefully, it will be much more peaceful than the one they leave behind. 

Arthur fought hard to give his people a chance to rest and recover from the devastations of war, and for the first time in a long while he feels like he accomplished something of meaning. 

Perhaps true peace remains a distant dream, but it no longer seems _impossible_. 

Arthur takes a deep breath. The Great Hall smells of oak, allspice, and baked apples, it smells of genuine joy the celebrations bring. Behind the windows, the courtyard is still dark. The sun rises late in the months of winter, and Arthur isn’t used to being up this early, but there is something oddly comforting in these moments of quiet when the castle still slumbers, when he’s alone but not lonely, although— 

It seems he’s _not_ alone after all. 

He turns towards the sound of footsteps, unhurried and light, assured in a way that betrays that they don’t belong to a servant, and even in the dim light of the hall Arthur has no trouble recognizing their owner. 

Sir Maleagant of Gore. 

The man he once called his rival. 

The man he now calls his guest. 

Maleagant stops short the moment he notices the hall isn’t empty. He doesn’t seem to be displeased, just... _hesitant_ , perhaps unsure if his company would be welcome. 

Arthur offers him a small smile and a wave, beckoning him to come closer. 

In truth, he’s eager for a chance for them to talk in private. Four years have passed since Maleagant’s abrupt refusal to pursue the throne, and to this day Arthur wonders what was the reason behind it. 

Why did he put an end to their rivalry? Why didn’t he seek to truly _reconcile_?

“Your Majesty,” Maleagant greets, pausing next to the window. “ _Arthur_.” 

Gods, Arthur _missed_ hearing his given name. He’s never sought to be revered, he once begged Maleagant to make them _equal_ , and he is glad that they still _are_. 

It feels like they are. 

“Maleagant,” he grins. “It’s been a while.” 

Maleagant lifts a corner of his mouth. 

“We’ve seen each other yesterday,” he says. “In fact, we’ve seen each other every day since my arrival, as I am bound to attend the celebrations.” 

“Not _bound_ ,” Arthur says. “Your father never did.”

“My father has a certain reputation that allows him such liberties, whilst _I_ still need to establish myself at your court. Not quite so easy, considering our past.” 

Arthur nods. He may not be very well versed in politics, but he can understand that much. They haven’t been at war for years, but _peace_ between them is still shaky. 

“Still,” he says. “We’ve hardly exchanged a few words.” 

“And has it ever been different?” 

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, but finds that he can’t. 

It _hasn’t_ been, has it? They’ve never really _talked_ , and isn’t that an odd thought? 

Maleagant has been such an important part of his life. His first adversary, his first true rival, the person who pushed him to become a better man and a better ruler, but— 

They’ve never truly had a chance to get to _know_ each other. 

Maleagant doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns towards the courtyard, distracted by the flurry of snowflakes that dance behind the window, and Arthur— 

Arthur finds himself distracted by _him_. 

He hasn’t changed much. He doesn’t look a day older, not even compared to their very first meeting ten years in the past. His face is unmarred by lines, his cheekbones are high and the line of his mouth is perfectly capricious, his eyes glimmer impossible green in the warm light of the fireplace, and he seems— 

Mesmerizing, enchanting, a creature not from this world. A _fae_ , perhaps, and certainly not of the summer court. If Arthur had the good sense, he would’ve surely steered clear of him, but he— 

“Why did you withdraw your claims for the throne?” he asks, just to distract himself from the line of thought he’s not quite ready to continue. “I wondered…”

“If that was a trick?” Maleagant returns his attention to Arthur. “Perhaps an attempt to lull you into a false sense of security and then strike you down?” 

His voice is tinted with amusement, but his eyes tell a different story. There is _hurt_ lurking somewhere in their depths, a glimpse of a bleeding wound inflicted by the mistrust Arthur never felt. 

He sighs. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, I’ve never doubted your honor. I asked you to knight me, remember? You could’ve killed me back then…”

“I could’ve,” Maleagant says. “And there were moments when I thought I _should’ve_.”

“And yet I’m still alive.” 

Arthur knows he’s been reckless and foolish, he knows that he risked more than his life, and maybe he wouldn’t have done that again, but he doesn’t _regret_ it. 

“A miracle,” Maleagant retorts, and yet his expression softens. “I… appreciate your trust, it’s quite a rare thing for me to have.”

He grows quiet for a moment, contemplative. 

Arthur doesn’t dare to interrupt the silence. 

“You know, I’ve never claimed to be a good person,” Maleagant says after a while, “but I _do_ value my honor. You asked me why I chose to abandon my goals, and the truth is…” he hesitates. “I realized one day that _this_ would be the price I’d have to pay for the throne. My honor, my morals, my _soul_. It wasn’t worth it.” 

Arthur lowers his head. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think he should say _anything_ , he’s already got an answer far too honest, and pushing further would be needlessly cruel. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Maleagant’s gaze wandering, aimless, until something just above their heads seems to catch his attention, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. 

“A mistletoe,” he says, sounding mildly amused. 

Arthur looks up. Indeed, there _is_ a small cluster of berries and leaves carefully tucked in a gap between the stones framing the window. He suspects it was left there by one of the druids, a small symbol of light in the darkest of nights. 

“Did you know,” Maleagant says, “that in Rome, enemies at war would reconcile their differences under the mistletoe? I find it quite fitting.” 

Arthur hums. 

He _doesn’t_ find it fitting, not truly. He’s never thought them to be enemies, and even if they were, they surely aren’t _now_. What differences do they have when Maleagant’s desire for the throne no longer tears them apart? 

He shrugs. 

“I haven’t heard about it,” he says. “I think I like the Greek one better. You know, with kissing?” 

Maleagant raises his eyebrows. 

“For fertility,” Arthur adds, which— 

He probably _shouldn’t_ have. He probably shouldn’t have said _anything at all_ , he certainly didn’t think twice before opening his mouth, but for some reason— 

He doesn’t want to take his words back. 

Maleagant huffs a laugh.

“I doubt _any_ amounts of mistletoe would help us in this matter.” 

“But would it hurt to try?” Arthur says. “The kingdom needs an heir.” 

It’s nothing but a joke. A foolish one and not particularly funny, but why can’t he simply drop the matter? Why does he keep _pushing_? Does he truly expect to—

“You’d have better luck finding a wife,” Maleagant says dryly. 

Arthur winces. 

This isn’t a topic he welcomes. Even years later, marriage remains a sensitive issue to him, and while he bears no scars on his heart, while letting Guinevere go was almost _easy_ when he knew that he was doing the right thing, he still— 

Sometimes he still misses the dreams that he had, his carefree happiness, his _love_. 

Sometimes he still feels unbearably lonely. 

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “I really won’t. The last thing I want is to trap yet another woman in a marriage she can’t escape…” 

“Guinevere did,” Maleagant says. 

His expression is unreadable, his eyes betray nothing of what he might think of Arthur’s words, but whatever opinion he holds, it doesn’t much matter. Arthur has already fought for the decision he made, and nothing has the power to change it. 

“Yes,” he says. “And she paid a steep price for the right to be with the one she loves.”

Even the High-King was powerless to break the union blessed by the Gods. 

Lancelot and Guinevere chose to run, they chose to live their lives in exile, keeping no titles or lands. They had no regrets, but Arthur still wishes they could’ve had an easier path.

 _Why_ was he given the right to keep the woman chained?

Why wasn’t he given the one to set her free? 

He sighs. 

“Can we go back to the subject of kissing?” 

He lifts the corner of his mouth in a semblance of a smile and keeps his tone deliberately light, he makes it seem like it is nothing but an attempt to move away from a too-heavy topic, but while he _does_ much rather talk about kissing… 

If he’s honest with himself, he’d rather _do_ the kissing. 

“Is there anything left to discuss?” Maleagant asks. 

His eyebrows arch and his lips quirk into a mocking line, his eyes are both amused and searching, and— 

Gods be merciful _,_ but Arthur _wants_ him.

Once the thought enters his mind, it refuses to leave. Persistent, it takes a root in his heart, it makes it beat faster—in excitement, in anticipation, in _hope_. 

He doesn’t want to think about the last time he felt something like that. 

He doesn’t want to compare, to _fear_. 

He doesn’t want to take a step back.

Arthur swallows, his throat suddenly dry. 

“Not with words, I don’t think...” he whispers. 

He doesn’t know what Maleagant might read in his eyes.

His mind is scrambled, his feelings are a mess. He recognizes his own attraction, he isn’t _ashamed_ of it, he just wonders... Is there something of substance behind it? Is it worth risking to further complicate their already uneasy relationship?

But then, Maleagant’s mouth curves into a gentle, oddly indulgent smile, his gaze seems to soften, two small, straight lines appear in the corners of his eyes, and suddenly Arthur knows the answer to his questions.

Maleagant takes a step towards him, and then another, until the distance between them is no more. His fingers—cold, almost icy—touch the back of Arthur’s hand, his breath warms his lips. He smells of elderberries and wormwood, of leather and smoke, his eyes are still otherworldly green and absolutely arresting, his mouth— 

His mouth is tender and soft, it’s sensual, seeking and _loving_.

Kissing him feels like nothing Arthur could’ve ever imagined, it feels like _magic_ , old and forbidden, it’s— 

It’s over too soon.

Arthur’s head spins and his lips are tingling, his thoughts are a mess and his heart _swells_. He feels like he’s nineteen again, falling too reckless too fast, he should’ve learned his lesson, but—

He’s glad that he didn’t. 

“For reconciling our differences,” Maleagant says as they part. “I still think we need it much more than a fertility blessing.” 

“Do we?” Arthur murmurs, his mind far away. “Do we even _have_ the differences? I—” 

“We do,” Maleagant’s mouth twitches. “Plenty of those. We’ve got years of rivalry behind us and lots of reconciling to do. Don’t you think?”

Arthur blinks, then laughs as understanding comes. 

“Gods, yes. Yes, you’re right,” he says. “We’ll probably need a lifetime for that.” 

Maleagant simply smiles. He _smiles_ , brilliant and open, in a way that transforms his face completely, just for a moment allowing to see a glimpse of a man he truly is—the one, Arthur thinks, that calls for him so fiercely. The one he wants to _know_. 

He’ll get that chance. 

Perhaps what they have now is still insignificant and small and all too easy to brush aside, but Arthur has a feeling that one day it will grow into something truly wondrous. 

He has a feeling that the year that comes is going to be a _good_ one.


End file.
